Widows to the Soul
by moshpitstories
Summary: Inside the mind of Tom Riddle as he plans to make his first horcrux. A one-shot in the style of H.P. Lovecraft.


_He's watching me._

An itch formed between his shoulder blades. He knew, absolutely, that he was under close scrutiny again from the back of the room. He hated the sensation, and fought the shiver of repressed fear. He despised that shiver, the one he could never fully stop. Not when he was under that gaze.

His work was done. The lesson had been trivial. It had been trivial for years, no match for his skills and knowledge. But every day in this classroom took him back to his first year . . . and the gaze. The gaze that followed him wherever he went. He could escape in the hallways. He could escape on the grounds. But somehow, someway, that gaze would find him again. He felt naked before that gaze.

His spine knew when it was upon him.

It was the sensation of nakedness. The lack of shadows to enjoin, linger, glide through. He had done nothing that he felt warranted such treatment. Nothing that anyone could know of, that is. But those cursed eyes cared not. They followed him. And followed him. How he hated them, he bristled with anger at them. But he knew, he truly knew, that it was the fear that made him hate. Why should he, who had studied so much more than his ignorant mentors, still feel such things?

The gaze knew.

When the double lesson mercifully ended, he was out the door immediately. It was the last class of the day, and he had nowhere to be for hours, nowhere until curfew. Head high, he moved with purpose toward the doors, ardent to reach the privacy away from the castle. The gaze was gone, the itch a fading memory. The staircases were aligned, the doors in sight. As his hand made contact to push them open, to feel the crisp wind of a brisk early spring afternoon, it was back.

_He's watching me._

Fear turned to rage turned to bitter contempt as he moved through the doors. No matter the secrets he had discovered, secrets unknown for hundreds of years, the fear still came. No matter the power he had, the command over the other students who feared _him_ and not _that one_, it was not enough. It was never enough. Not even after he had spent years honing his mental shielding. He was still naked.

The shadows under the trees around the edge of the lake beckoned him, embraced him, and welcomed him with the softness of desire. Here, now, he was away from the prying eyes, the gaze that pierced corridors, free to become what he was meant to be.

He had delved deeper into the arcane lore, the rituals, the sheer power that magic held. He had transcended all others, not in experience, but in power. He could feel it. Thrumming in his hands, the eagerness of his wand, the breathless anticipation of the shadows.

The trek to the far side of the lake drained the buried fears; those lingering weaknesses that he knew must be excised. The heat of the moment faded, and only power remained in his grasp. There was no gaze but his own, and the forest had long since learned to fear this gaze.

But he had to purge this last bit of fear. His transcendence to greatness could not suffer imperfections in the base. Any imperfection, any weakness, it had to be ripped out, shredded, eviscerated.

_It's because of those filthy Muggles. _

They had not understood his greatness; they had not gazed upon what he had. They were ignorant, hiding in their broken down buildings, cowering in grime. The sour stench of fear-sweat would inevitably fill the night. Those nights that would be heralded with sirens and explosions. Those nights that fed his strength, his power, his glory. Nights were now his alone.

He had grown in fear, hiding from those filthy Muggles. Their cruelty and their hate for the strangeness of him was a lash upon his back. The fear of the child that killed his own mother with his freakish ways was a crown of thorns for his brow. And then it had happened. He had found power, true power, inside himself. Then he hid no longer. They had taught him of fear, so he taught them of darkness. Now, the days were of _their_ hiding. The nights were of _his_ reign. _They_ never understood the loosened bowels were not from the terror of the burning skies. They were from his gaze.

It was his gaze that brought such sweet pain that moans of pleasure or fear were in harmony. It was his desire, his whim, which ruled the stupid cattle. Until that damned day, when a new gaze came. A gaze that pierced him, that brought back the fear and terror of his life before the power. The gaze of the bright blue eyed one that came to tell him of a school for people like him, people with real power.

He had forgotten what the fear felt like, how it left him trembling, how it made him quail and long for the deepest shadows and smallest crannies. It was the gaze of a predator, a blue-eyed spear of comprehension . . . and judgement. The power of that gaze spoke of condemnation, of damnation, of repentance, of sorrow, of guilt. The gaze told no lies, it spoke only truth, and he felt his desires, fears, conquests flash when he first was struck down by it. The bitter cold from high mountain passes settled into his brain as his memories tumbled about, panic and fear and confusion forcing his weak body to quiver.

_I know this fear._

The thought was startling in its suddenness. He stood near the transitional edge of the Forbidden Forest, the groupings of trees near the lake becoming a solid mass of darkness at the boundary marker before him. The darkness whispered its seductions of treasures inside, of secrets and power as yet untapped no matter how many times he had entered that sanctum. But the whispers also boasted to him the cold reality of his fear. It was mocking him, taunting him for his weakness.

His heartbeat quickened. The fear was there, in the air. For his life to be carried forward, the fear must be excised. The fear was looking over his shoulder, a doting father approving such a faithful son. An embrace of the shadows and secrets, of lessons learned.

He tasted the heat of welling blood.

He heard the sibilant tearing of skin.

He felt the harsh clacking of bone.

Entreaties and offerings made by his hand to the fear that crept closer. His nerves came alive with the memories. The images of animals, fur matted from blood and mucus. Fleeting joys of broken tormentors, cowering and covered in a slime of their own bodily functions. And the eyes. The eyes were the windows to the soul, or so the ancient ones had claimed. Rather, he thought they were witnesses to the culmination of fears.

_I know this fear._

It was a fear of death, the death that waited eternal. Reverently, he laid his journal upon the ground. He used his wand to make an incision in his off palm. Calmly, he used the pooling bloody effluent to draw the runes of life and death with his wand upon the surface of his journal. The shapes sparked with power. The blood ceased welling, and slowly the sparks and red-black marks soaked into the book. His palms itched as his fingertips brushed the gilded cover, placing it back in his robes.

Easter was coming, that holiday for filthy Muggles and Muggle-lovers. For supposedly conquering death, they celebrated. The fat fool in the dungeons had made it clear that _he_ could conquer death, that he could rise above it. He could be reborn without his fear, if he would but make the sacrifice. The rules were clear – a human life had to be given for his bypass of death, for his transcendence to glory. A sacrificial lamb offered up to immortalize his blood, his line, his sovereignty. Compared to him, they were all no more than animals, their lives but his for the taking.

The first one had to be soon. That would be the one he would create upon Easter. It would be a fitting date to celebrate his own victory over death, for his conquering fear. His creation would purge the last weakness from his mind, securing his foundation for the future.

Seven was the most powerful number, but he would not rush this. Each one would be a divorce between death, the eternal lover, and his humanity. A divorce of death, a process of widow-making. He needed the first one secure, and he had been preparing for months. But each widow to his soul would make his dominance greater, his glory greater, his power greater.

After Easter, that piercing gaze would no longer stir his fear, his memories. He would rise above all others, be what they could never dream of. And the tables would turn. He would study his adversaries, as they would no longer be able to harm him. He would find their buried secrets, their fears, their desires. And he would destroy them.

_I will watch him._

_

* * *

**A/N:**_

_First, I re-read a solid chunk of H.P. Lovecraft's work about a year ago. It inspired this bunny, both in style and in content._

_Second, this is a challenge entry. As per challenge rules, no editing was allowed. Mistakes and overall imperfections are likely to be many._

_Third, Echoes of Power Ch28, is in beta. That's been announced in various other places, but I'm mentioning it here to avoid the question for those that have not seen the announcements.  
_


End file.
